


hold tight, it's just beginning

by thatsparrow



Category: Zodiac (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 13:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: The kid's got this furrow between his brows and his chin still perched on the fucking book and he's looking at Paul with the kind of wide-eyed innocence Paul's sure is reserved for suburban kids in a fifties sitcom. So wholesome it fuckinghurts. Like he wouldn't know guile unless he looked it up in one of those big plastic-wrapped library books he keeps sitting in his briefcase where Paul's got a pack of cigarettes and a second pair of sunglasses.





	hold tight, it's just beginning

**Author's Note:**

> set during the first scene between the two of them at the bar, just after jake gyllenhaal finishes explaining the substitution cipher
> 
> title from "we both go down together" by the decemberists

"What do you want out of this?"

"What?"

"What's your angle? This is good business for everyone _but_ you."

"How do you mean, 'business'?"

The kid's got this furrow between his brows and his chin still perched on the fucking book and he's looking at Paul with the kind of wide-eyed innocence Paul's sure is reserved for suburban kids in a fifties sitcom. So wholesome it fucking _hurts_. Like he wouldn't know guile unless he looked it up in one of those big plastic-wrapped library books he keeps sitting in his briefcase where Paul's got a pack of cigarettes and a second pair of sunglasses. Like he belongs in the Catholic white of an altar boy, all clean lines and ironed edges, and there's so much crime-scene muck and sensationalist ink caked into the whorls of Paul's fingertips that any movement near the kid threatens to leave stains.

And, God, the _books_. Jesus fuck — leave it to Graysmith to bring volumes on code-breaking to a fucking _bar_ , stacking them on the streaked wood like downed and upturned shot glasses.

Then again, it's maybe too easy to imagine Graysmith getting dizzy off the words printed on yellowing pages the way whiskey throws Paul's world on a forty-five degree slant. Graysmith, with his Boy Scout haircut and restless eyes and nervous fingers. Graysmith, who takes a seat on the leather-backed curve of the booth like he's waiting for someone to tell him he doesn't belong, ordering cocktails colored the neon-blue of an 'OPEN' sign on the door of a 24-hour liquor store. And here's Paul quizzing the kid on his end game—because it's the _Chronicle_ and Paul's been doing this long enough to know that's how this shit _works_ —and, really, no fucking surprise that Graysmith is staring at him like he's speaking in code.

But even that's not right, is it? Not when there's a pattern to ciphers, governed by logic and game board rules and fundamentally breakable to someone like Graysmith, who must've been solving cereal box mazes while still sitting in a high chair. Working away at pen-and-paper puzzles like _that_ 's what he gets paid to do. Graysmith's desk a paper airplane throw away from Paul's own in the _Chronicle_ offices, and it'd be embarrassing how long it took for him to notice the kid if Paul wasn't numb by now to every straight-edge rookie shuffled through the desks, hoping to score an above-the-fold headline before settling for seventh-page puff pieces (never mind that Graysmith works with fountain pens instead of ribbon-inked text, and it really only proves Paul's point that it never registered Graysmith's desk was one of the few absent a typewriter). If he'd paid attention enough to place bets on the kid's future, he probably wouldn't have given him six months.

Sometimes, Paul likes being proven wrong.

Still, being near the Zodiac case is probably dangerous for someone like Graysmith, gut instinct flaring up in Paul anytime he sees that fever-glint in Graysmith's eyes when a new letter arrives, when he's bent low over his desk surface and sketching faster than Paul can follow. The kind of obsession sunk bone-marrow deep, and of course Paul recognizes it, because he wouldn't and fucking _couldn't_ be working the crime beat if he didn't.

Moments like this, he thinks of warning the kid off, stepping in with sage big-brother wisdom that this road only leads to 2 AM cups of shitty Folger's coffee and eyes burning from the corona glow of a desk lamp and a collection of bad habits accrued like parking meter change in the center console of Graysmith's assuredly secondhand car. But that's not Paul's place, really. Besides, it's plain as the bright pink paper umbrellas littering the table that Graysmith lives for this shit, same as him. Must've known what he was getting into with a job at the _Chronicle_ (and, right now, Paul is drunk enough not to care about or notice the distinction that the kid's a fucking _cartoonist_ and so staying up late playing detective until he's sliding sideways into the fabric of his couch cushions isn't really the same thing).

Still, not so drunk that it doesn't register the way Graysmith's slumped back against the leather of the booth, four empty aqua velva glasses on the tabletop and Paul's willing to guess it's three more drinks than the kid's ever had in his life. Eyes fluttering shut and starlet-long lashes dark against his cheeks and, yeah, he's thirty seconds from passing out and that's maybe the least of Paul Avery's problems right now.

"Alright, Bobby, time to go."

"Hm?"

"Home. _Bed._ Better to let your face become best friends with whatever Sears & Roebuck tile you've got at the base of your toilet than whatever the fuck's still sticking to the tabletop. Trust me on this one, kid."

Graysmith mumbles something half-slurred that sounds like an agreement, so Paul stubs out the last third of his cigarette in a sandbox of gray ash, Graysmith tucking the books into the bedding of his briefcase and a handful of bills filtered from the silver of Paul's money clip to cover the tab and they're easing out of the booth towards the door and the waiting saltwater chill of the city's streets. He's got the kid's arm over his shoulder, Graysmith easing through the bar on these unsteady Bambi legs, and Paul's sure it's equal parts the alcohol percentage from the aqua velvas and being strung out on too little sleep, like trying to wring an article's worth of ink from a dried up typewriter ribbon and the words fading to white halfway down the page.

If Graysmith's getting more than five hours a night, Paul will eat his fucking nameplate.

He's got his own arm curled around the kid's back keeping him upright and, outside the bar, it's cold enough to have Paul wishing he had the extra hand to manage the buttons of his blazer. The kind of wind blowing off the bay that's sharp enough to burn a frostbite red into his cheeks. Except that just brings him back to the awareness of Graysmith's weight against his side, slung forearm keeping the chill off Paul's neck and heat radiating from where he's pressed flushed against Paul's ribs and so of course Paul can't help but notice the smell of the kid's drugstore cologne, and—Jesus fuck—Graysmith _would._

That the smell of it is more endearing than annoying is the kind of uncomfortable 6 AM slap to the face reminding Paul he needs to _wake the fuck up_.

So he takes in a deep lungful of air—tells himself he's using the cold to chase the blue-liquor dizziness from his brain, that it has nothing to do with whatever generic-brand bullshit Graysmith keeps stored in his medicine cabinet—and maneuvers the two of them near enough to the curb that he can flag down a cab. Thinks of Zodiac for one brief paranoid second as the wheels reach a six-inch distance from the sidewalk's lip before remembering the fucker had been passenger, not cabbie, and nothing's happening to him or Graysmith tonight other than a handful of aspirin and a horse-kick of a hangover in the morning.

Fuck, he's done this song and dance often enough to already figure tomorrow's bringing nine different kinds of hell. The kind of shit characteristic of waking up wearing boxers and a single sock and head throbbing at the electric-white light of every lamp and wall sconce, desperate for one fucking cup of coffee like it's the lifeline of an IV-drip.

And then he can't help but think of what the kid must look like in the sunrise, and it's a brief guilty moment as he pictures Graysmith's legs tangled in whatever linen cabinet sheets he'll remake in the morning, smoothing them back into something consisting of crisp lines and corners tucked in under the mattress. Neat parting of his Boy-Scout haircut mussed against the pillowcase, mouth half-open in sleep and pressed against the cotton fabric.

All to say that Paul is fucked. Though he's not sure that really counts as news these days.

"You got anyone waiting at home for you, Bobby? Kids stuck with a sitter or something?" Paul asks, once he's flagged down a cab and gotten them both inside. He's got one arm propped up on the doorframe and head turned determinedly away from where Graysmith's resting at the other end of the backseat, seatbelt dutifully adhered to, head tilted back against the upholstery, soft lines of his silhouette lit up anytime they pass under a streetlight. City-street orange casting these dancing Halloween shadows across his cheeks and Paul's itching for a cigarette or two or ten.

"No, no," he says, eyes closed and tongue wetting his lips as he searches for the shape of the next words. "Their mom has them tonight."

"Just you, then?"

"Just me."

It's a fact that interests Paul maybe more than it should, so he distracts himself by tapping his foot against the cab's frayed carpeting, eyeing the corner street signs and pastel shapes of Victorians, old-fashioned architecture whittled down to something sinister-looking in the dark. Thoughts drifting away from Bobby Graysmith back to Zodiac the way they always do — wondering whether he's camped out somewhere in the city or sitting pretty in Vallejo or Napa or Solano or fucking wherever. And that's his life these days, isn't it? Crime scene photos and blue-ink ciphers and code-breaking books. Pinballing between Zodiac and Graysmith like there's some snot-nosed punk in a back alley arcade shooting for the high score, pumping in quarters that keep Paul pinging between pieces of evidence and Graysmith's cartoons.

Fuck, would he have even met Graysmith if it weren't for fucking Zodiac? At the start of all this, the kid just some figure in his periphery, baby faced and wearing these neatly collared shirts and working away at his cartoons and since when does Paul Avery ever give a shit about cartoons? Not like Graysmith would have ever tagged along to the bar or asked to bum a smoke or perched on the edge of Paul's desk the way he's in the habit of doing these days. Not like Paul doesn't have more important things to think about, and so it's likely as anything he'd have continued writing Graysmith off as little more than another footnote in the _Chronicle_ 's history. And then the letters started coming, and still you couldn't have paid Paul Avery to give a shit until he heard Graysmith making these off-the-cuff predictions panning out to be truer than anything the boys in blue turned up, poring over each new piece of Zodiac's mind games with the kind of intensity Paul couldn't help but notice.

And now here he is — here they both are. Paul counting the beats before the neon red blur of the stoplight hopscotches to green, Graysmith sitting eighteen inches to his left with a hand resting palm down in the middle of the backseat, briefcase balanced on his knees.

Fucking Graysmith. Fucking Zodiac.

_Fuck_.

It's another few minutes before they pull up to the curb outside Graysmith's house, enough time for Paul to mentally spin a half-dozen scenarios for how the rest of the night plays out. Sharing two cups of coffee in Graysmith's kitchen, measured sips of something cheap and bitter, table likely sitting on uneven legs with a slight shake to its surface and kindergarten artwork pinned to the fridge. Or waving Graysmith off at the curb before passing out on the cab's upholstery, letting the rhythm of the wheels lull him towards something meditative and comatose on the way back to his own apartment. Or Graysmith laying flat on his back on the bedroom mattress his ex-wife left—and that makes the whole thing okay, doesn't it?—a hitch in his breathing and a flex in his fingertips and a new flush in his cheeks.

_Careful, Paul._

Except now they're here, and so Paul needs to turn himself away from that dangerous thread of his thoughts and figure exactly what the fuck happens next. No _story continued on page A4_ bullshit — just a blank sheet sitting in the carriage and a collection of handwritten fragments waiting to be pieced together into something coherent.

But first things first is the kid, clearly balancing on a thin tightrope of consciousness and front door at least a dozen yards from the curb and Paul would be nothing less than an asshole if he left Graysmith to fend for himself. Still, for all that he's convinced himself in the short-term, these feel like uncertain waters he's treading, ink-black and unfathomable as he pulls himself out of the backseat and feels his way around the bumper to the other door. Pops the latch and swears the _click_ sounds like a gunshot in the silence. Helps Graysmith up and out and back to his feet and tells himself he's feeling nothing but the wind as Graysmith rubs a hand across his tired eyes, Paul catching the faint scraping sound as Graysmith massages a line over the graphite-colored stubble on his jaw.

"Thanks for this, Paul," Graysmith offers as he fishes his briefcase from the back and shuts the door behind himself, narrowly missing catching the hem of his coat between the closing metal jaws. "Drinks, I mean. Getting me home. I really appreciate it."

And it kills Paul that for all the kid's dead on his feet, there's still something so fucking _genuine_ in his tone, the words almost uncomfortable for their sincerity.

"Christ, Bobby, it's just drinks, not a fucking kidney," Paul says, half-distracted as he realizes the cabbie's still waiting, not sure whether he should pay him now and send him on his way—making Graysmith's destination his own, too—or keep him waiting at the curb. "Save the sap for when I win my Pulitzer." And whether he's feeling put on the spot or just feeling weak—likelier still for it to be some combination of the two—he digs enough bills to cover the fare out of his back pocket and passes them to the driver, wondering what Graysmith must be thinking as the cab pulls away from the curb and leaves them alone on the street.

Then again, he's tired enough he may not even fucking notice. Innocent enough he may not even understand.

The trip to the front door takes barely thirty seconds and feels like it lasts a fucking century, their shoulders brushing on every other step and Graysmith blinking at the world like everything's still a little out of focus and Paul trying to rationalize what the _fuck_ he's doing here. Not that he doesn't want Graysmith — no, he knows that for a certainty by now, would be lying to himself if he pretended any different. Still, there's no way to compare the clean cut edges of the kid's Boy Scout hair and shirt buttoned to the wrists to the tobacco-spiced air in Paul's lungs and not feel a phantom itch of guilt under his skin. That the kid no doubt deserves better than someone like Paul fucking Avery in his life, let alone in his home.

The porch light is off at the top of the steps and so it takes Graysmith a couple extra seconds of searching through his coat pockets to come up with his keys, just enough of an allowance for Paul to make up his mind, find an anchor hold in some kind of moral surety. For all he's been called a selfish asshole and an alcoholic and a list's worth of names longer than the number of bylines he's racked up—names just as cigarette-sour and true as the contents of every violent felony he's summed up for the pages of the _Chronicle_ —he at least knows when to draw a line in the sand. Knows well-enough that Graysmith's front porch is it, even as he finally finishes negotiating with the locks and shoulders the door open into the shadowy hall of his home on the other side.

"You want coffee, or juice, or something?" Graysmith asks as he makes his way inside, coat slipped off and hung on a wall hook like he's running on autopilot, exhaustion evident in his voice as he tries to play the host.

"No, Bobby," Paul says after a beat, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm against the frame, "not tonight. But do me—and yourself—a favor, alright? Get your shoes off and down a glass of water like it's a fucking aqua velva and put yourself to bed. No fucking with the case files or flipping through whatever other library books you're sitting on, get me? Shoes. Water. Bed. That's it. You can thank me at work in the morning."

And if it looks like Graysmith's face falls a little at that—some slight hint of disappointment or confusion in the crease of his brow—it's probably just Paul's imagination.

"Yeah, okay," Graysmith says, "I guess it is pretty late. Well, thanks—"

"Swear to God, Bobby," Paul says, cutting him off with a raised hand, "you try to thank me again and this stays a one-time thing. Okay? We're friends — this is the kind of shit friends do." He pauses, gives a dismissive wave of his hand. "You know, bonding over serial killers aside."

If nothing else, the kid seems to perk up at the sound of the word _friends_ , and that alone feels like something of a win. And Paul tells himself—assures himself—it's not a lie, not an editorial liberty, just a fact. They are friends, and if nothing else, Paul thinks he can live with that much. Could survive on nights shared in back-corner booths, swapping theories and revelations back-and-forth the way school kids trade baseball cards, not quite ignoring the warm weight of the wedding ring on his left hand.

"Friends," Graysmith echoes, and Paul knows he doesn't imagine the slight smile he's wearing. "See you tomorrow, Paul."

With one last nod at the kid, Paul turns on his heel, hearing the front door _click_ shut behind him as he heads down towards the sidewalk, hands jammed deep into his pockets and fingers feeling for the outline of his lighter. The glow at the tip of his cigarette an orange pinprick in the black fabric of the city's shadows, streets quiet save for his shoes against the pavement. No cabs in sight—his own fucking fault for waving off the last one—and too many waking hours starting to weigh on his eyelids and still a hell of a ways to go until he can collapse in the comfort of his own bed.

Nothing left to do but walk, then, and so Paul keeps himself moving in the direction of a busier street where he's got a better chance of flagging down a late-night taxi. Blows out a stream of tobacco-gray smoke, warms his hands against the lining of his jacket pockets. Feels alone, but not lonely, and maybe that's the best he can hope for.

Maybe that's all he gets.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, I don't know. blame a 2AM burst of inspiration


End file.
